


Oi, you over weight unshaven onesie loving plonker!

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Dear Santa!, Gen, Twisted Sense Of Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 20:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: It's about time the King of Mean got his just deserts!





	Oi, you over weight unshaven onesie loving plonker!

**Author's Note:**

> Absolute and utter crack, seriously. SERIOUSLY! Thanks for the beta jj1564 <3 Also, this is what I wrote to get me back into *Crowley voice* for the bigger one I'm working on now, lol!

~~Oi, you over weight unshaven onesie loving plonker!~~

Dear Santa,

How come I never get anything in my bloody stocking?

Year after sodding year I end up sitting and watching that moronic Moose and his Squirrelly big brother getting hyped up on eggnog and rainbow laces, fighting over fresh battery packs and having Lightsaber battles, whilst I look at the big pile of bugger fucking all in my stocking, and I want to know why!

I _know_ **exactly** what you’re going to say, you chunky judgemental git, but technically I should be on that nice list of yours. I’m a Demon, and I’m bloody brilliant at it. Hello - King of the Crossroads to King of Hell in only a few short millenia - surely that’s worthy of a couple of meesley gifts.

Nice _might_ be pushing it a touch, I’ll grant you, but I’m inherently evil which means I’m acting exactly as I should be. So, GIMME PRESENTS!

With that blindingly irrefutable logic in mind, I have a few simple requests...

1\. An entire year without having to see a single square of plaid. Samantha and Deanna’s wardrobes should be purged of all chequered monstrosities, and every bloody clothing outlet from here to Outer-Mongolia should in fact either be burned to the ground for even considering stocking the damned stuff or the proprietors threatened with beheading. I can’t see another god awful orange and red shirt. _Please_. No more British Pensioner tea-towel collection, okay?

2\. If you could do me one small favour, I’d be eternally grateful, and I’m a Demon, so eternally means **eternally**. Turn that ridiculous muscle bound penis extension of a car into a moped, and then make Deanna the Wonder Douche wear a pink helmet whilst riding in between hunts.

3\. Psittacine feather disease for that winged prick, Castiel. If it’s not pus-filled and burning it’s not good enough!

4\. Set light to the portrait my festering boil of a biological parental unit has clearly been hiding in the basement in Hell. I want to see every one of her years etched onto her face, preferably with a straight razor.

5\. Lucifer’s vessel desperately needs a dose of the clap, and arms too short to reach his crotch for an itch.

6\. Samantha Wankchester, the long and tall idiot, needs to become Samena, the midget rodeo clown with questionable morals and personal hygiene. One week, just one week. Okay, maybe two weeks, I’m begging you.

I know, I **know** , I haven’t even asked for anything for myself yet, but as these are all public services you’ll be performing at my behest, I think I’ll keep the list as it is and earn extra good-boy brownie points for initiating these wondrous acts.

Plus hearing the sound of devastation as Dean walks into the Bunkers’ garage and finds his precious car no longer capable of housing two barmaids, a tube of lube, and a six pack, will be reward and gift enough.

Anyway, cheers. I’ll expect delivery of everything by the twenty-fifth.

Crowley.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

~~Hey, you throne losing floor licking moronic mook~~

Dear Crowley,

Despite your absolutely amazing grasp of logic and my actual reason for being, plus the shockingly crystal clear grip you seem to have on the idea of my naughty and nice list, I don’t think I can grant any of your Christmas wishes.

I’m enclosing the address of my second cousin on my Mother’s side; The Anti-Claus.

He’s far more agreeable when it comes to boils and bitch slapping people with faces you’d never tire of punching, into the middle of the next century.

I would like to point out that you might need some kind of therapy. Just sayin’. That or a serious course of anger management classes.

Now, before I sign off, the Tooth Fairy wanted me to pass along his regards and tell you that no, he can’t extract every single one of Sam and Dean’s teeth and leave a pile of melted chocolate coins under their pillows, no matter _how much_ you’re offering to pay him. And before you even think about it, Hell Hounds can’t see Tooth Fairies, okay?

Merry Christmas, you complete psychopath. Please don’t contact me again, I’m considering relocating to the ass end of nowhere so you don’t actually have my address.

Santa Claus.


End file.
